Sheriff L.F. Godred in IRON STAMPEDE!
A Quick Little Yarn From One of the Heroes of the New West!
THE ASCENSORES
In the days when the New West sought law and order, and the anarchic hordes threatened all working towards resettlement, only one group stood firm against all forms of injustice and villainy. A group of lawmen who believe in the old ways of the West band together, led by the one, the only, the incredible Leonard Ford Godred, future hero in the war for freedom! These are his stories.
And just one last little twist here and we’re all set! Betsy, with a tune-up like that, you about to be the hottest steel pony in the whole wide west. Now where did I–oh howdy! Didn’t expect y’all to drop in so soon. Always nice to have some friendly faces around the ranch, especially on an off-day when you can enjoy their company.
Yes friends, sure as my midnight black fur, your ol’ pal Sheriff Godred’s taking a pit-stop. Normally I woulda said no to it. You know me; I’m much better when I’m out with the rest of the Ascensores, keeping patrol over our little neck of the woods. But with the heapa trouble me, Betsy, and a hunk of the pack just went through, the boys said it’d be worthwhile to take up some R&R.
Now I betcha y’all are curious what kinda trouble could make even your ol’ pal Leo say yes to a day-off. And since I got plenty of time, here it goes!
It all started when we got a lead on one of the nastiest carjacking gangs out here in the New West. The Ober gang was always hijacking poor folks’ rides for scrap and parts and leaving them stranded on those treacherous trails between settlements, if left alive at all. The head honcho himself, Harry Ober, was one of the meanest hounds you could meet. A tall white fella with a big black eyepatch and a nasty laugh that could shake rocks from the hills. We’d been tailing ‘em for ages, but when we finally got a good lead after picking up a family close to Croswell, we weren’t lettin’ ‘em outta our sights for nothing.
Now we Ascensores take great pride in our hot rods and mighty muscle cars. Without our colorful iron gals, we wouldn’t stand half a chance taking the great big bites out of crime we do out here in the old New West. Just the same as we pride ourselves on keeping our hats and jackets nice and neat, and always showing courtesy to our friends down the trail and across the desert. It’s all a part of being prepped and ready to do the hard work that needs doing of bringing what’s good and right to this great land of ours. And boy were we gonna need to be on our toes for this one.
First things first for us; you know we got the sharpest tracker in the land. Good ol’ Jay Lightfeather with the flat black cowboy hat was as good with his nose as he was with his boot on the throttle or a gun in his hand. Our tan-furred friend managed to pick up the trail of the Obers thanks to some stray shells left over from the ambush. Just a few hunks of dead lead and we was off racing westward.
Now here’s where all that fussin’ first comes in hand: endurance. Between Jay’s powder-blue Dodge pickup, my Betsy, and the whole rest of the gang, our four-wheeled friends were built to weather every storm that done come their way. From the rockiest ridges to the twistiest bends, you can ride ‘em real rough the way we do chasin’ bandits all over hill and dale. That’s something we just can’t afford, but especially when on the trail of crooks who drive like bats outta hell.
I let Jay lead us as far as that well-worn snout of his could. We roared through canyon passes and around old gulches, red sand as far as the eyes could see. Red sand that, once we got perched up on a ridge, gave way to tiny dots of white, black, silver, and red down on the desert floor. Dots which grew into cars, and lots of ‘em.
It was them alright; the whole Ober gang rockin’ and rollin’ down in the valley. They were savoring the latest of their spoils with all the half-cocked tricks they were pulling off. They never really were good mechanics though. They simply saw new metal and slapped it wherever it was needed. It gets ya around, but it ain’t gonna last forever. But if squealing tires didn’t give their fun away, that haggard laugh of ol’ Harry Ober did.
“DRINK IT IN BOYS!” he hollered real shrill, “THE BEST FOR US AND TO HELL WITH THE REST!”
Now the obvious question is how does a posse like ours, no more than 10 hounds, two to a ride, go wrangling a gang twice our size? Seems like a mighty tall order, but when it comes to making plans like that, good ol’ Terry Toth with the slick gray fur sure knows how to cut the problem down to size. Terry was riding with me after looking at how far the ridge spanned from our spot to theirs, that sharp gray mind of his cooked a real hoot of a scheme.
“Say Leo,” he says to me, “Figurin’ how one-track they minds is, how bout we handle ‘em as such? ‘Stead of a cattle drive, we got us some iron horses in need of wrangling.”
I done loved the sound of that and it came even sweeter when I saw how we was gonna do it. We sent two hounds down along the top of the ridge–far from eyesight–to perch their ride over top where the gang was having their merrymaking. They’d start firing down on ‘em to spook ‘em, and then get hightailing right up their tailpipes to keep ‘em moving in the right direction. More of our gang would file alongside to keep ‘em flowing right, but we’d need something to file them into. I prefer capturing and trying ‘em, but with the kinda blood on these thugs’ fur, I wasn’t gonna fuss either way.
Toth pointed out a good dry riverbed drop on the way back. A solid 10-20 foot drop that could do some damage. All we needed was the right carrot on the right stick to lead ‘em there alongside all our corralling.
“How bout my Betsy?” I offered. “They’re gonna try and take snipes at the rest of the boys, but my baby oughta be a real gold nugget for ‘em. You drive and I’ll shoot.”
With the way this doll-eyed black Chevy Fleetline had gotten me outta more pickles than I gotten her into, she seemed the perfect bait. Toth and I shook on it, and before we knew it, the whole gang was in place.
When we heard the cracks of rifles and the hollering of wolves, we knew our iron stampede was starting to make its moves. Sure enough, they started in the direction we was angling. When more of the Ascensores got into the mix, these creeps started to try and take our rides. You could see ol’ one-eyed Ober licking his lips and firing like mad from behind the wheel of his ol’ beat-up Ford.
The end result was wild; the mass of stampeding hot rods and sedans were ebbing and flowing out as they made their swipes. Only thing louder than the engines was ol’ Ober hollering “THERE’S PLENTY OF GOOD STEEL TO GO ROUND!”
It was only after being met with the sharpshooting of my hounds that they realized things weren’t gonna be so easy for ‘em.
That then, of course, was where me, Terry and ol’ Betsy came kicking in. When Terry flicked that black Fleetline’s rear at ‘em and slammed the gas, it was like gearhead catnip to Harry Ober.
“BOYS,” he growled with delight, “this hunka tin is mine all mine.”
He hit the gas hard and started right for us, that beady eye popping off his raggedy white fur. That slope-backed Ford did have a few points in her favor under the hood, but we was about to find out just where mean ol’ Ober put his precious metals.
Another point in favor of taking real good care of your ride: agility. When a fella like Terry gets beating on your gal’s pedals and cutting that wheel, you see all that girl is good for. Him and Betsy got on like a house fire in front of them scuzzy thugs and their half-beaten machines. They kept trying for us, gunning for the tires, but Terry kept ‘em bobbin’ and weavin’ like there was no tomorrow. And of course, out the window was yours truly with a rifle in hand givin’ em all sorts of hell.
Now that left us with a hatful of the rest of the posse ready to corral the stampede into the riverbed. And that brings us to one last good point in favor of keeping your ride in good nick: good brakes.
As the riverbed drew near, the gaggle of agitated hounds and rides rattling away behind us, I swung my head in and got ready for the big show. Betsy kept booking it right for the drop with old Terry at the wheel, but sure as sunshine, when he stamped them brakes and swung her hard to the right, she was clear of the riverbed. And when the last of the Ascensores swung in behind us and shot towards the Ober gang...whew boy you shoulda seen it.
Harry Ober and his well-worn Ford went head first into the riverbed with an awful crash. What followed was damn near an avalanche of hot rods, tumbling down into that riverbed, slamming into each other, flying over each other. And of course, the momentum at the back kept that pileup going for a good minute or two until the last car at the back came screeching to a stop, covered on all sides by my boys.
Needless to say, it was quite easy arresting the fellas thanks to all the carnage, and you can bet them Obers saw some proper New West justice. And if it wasn’t for my hounds’ sharp minds and our damn fine rides, we couldn’t have nailed ‘em half as good. It wasn’t until afterwards that I found ol’ Betsy had taken some real licks in the aftermath, and with the sheer exodus of thuggery being escorted to court, that’s where the boys got the idea to give me the day off. And so here I sit, keeping my girl all good and ready for the next roundup. And you all best do the same for your rides to keep you and your folks safe on the trail. Will catch ya next time!